The Death of An Angel
by quaint.camera
Summary: Welcome to "The City on the Edge of Forever." Jim has to let his lover die so that he can return to his normal time. The ugly aftermath may just help him discover something he never knew he had, as Spock and Bones begin to share his grief.
1. Chapter 1

**_The Death of An Angel  
Chapter 1 _**

* * *

_Edith Keeler__ must die_, Spock's voice says in his head.

He squeezes his eyes shut against the grief. _She _must_ die_, he tells himself, but the voice is still Spock's—cool, precise, incredibly even—and he hates the man for his ability to remain collected as he looks upon this slaughter, thinks that even now he's standing there impassively, nothing in him itching to run in and save her, to destroy the old forever and forge a new, terrible world.

_Strangely compelling, isn't it? But God forbid—Vulcan forbid—that you think of playing God._

He knows how she marches to her death: single-mindedly, with her eyes trained on the face of her lover/traitor. He's the lure and he knows it, knows her eyes see nothing but his newly confessed love and do not see the traitorous side of him. He doesn't see _her_, but he sees her doe-eyes, big and brown and infinitely perceptive—so much more than any woman's should ever be. He sees her thin lips drawn together and her chin tilted slightly upward like a queen of someplace and knows that she doesn't deserve to die like this.

"_It's lovely seeing you again, Miss Keeler," he said, and even as he did he felt the truth of the words making his smile blossom helplessly. It had been a long time since he'd not had the ability to fight off his smile, but he had just lost it to her for the thousandth time and she lowered her eyes, overcome with her ever-present humility._

_She was wearing a purple cap perched precariously on one side of her head. Curiosity piqued, he brushed his fingers lightly over the flowers that served as decoration and found that they had been fashioned out of felt. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had made it herself. _

"_You look . . . lovely," he went on, trying to ignore the feeling that he was rough, crude in comparison to her . . . He wanted more than anything to impress, to win her approval._

"_Lovely . . ." She considered it, her eyes flashing back and forth from him to his hand on the side of her face. She reached up and touched it, made him go still—a polite attempt at keeping his advances at bay, so as not to seem too forward. "That seems to be the only word in your vocabulary this evening, Mister Kirk."_

_He chuckled—it was his real laugh, and floated up out of him from down deep. It was not the one he forced so often as the captain that had to be courteous in front of company, but one that was enchanted by the teasing voice—so light, full of refinement, only becoming breathless when it spoke of his future . . ._

"_Well . . ." He drew out the word, his thumb moving across her cheek. "When lovely is all you can see . . ." He shrugged, looking embarrassed, and she decided right then and there it didn't suit him at all._

"_Oh?" she piped, so close he could feel her breath and those long eyelashes. "Has lovely become . . . boring for you, Mister Kirk?"_

"_Please . . ." He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. "Call me Jim."_

_It was a moment before her lips felt safe to draw together in a smile. She glanced down briefly at herself, at the dark outfit she had chosen for their outing to the theatre, and then regarded him—not as a dirty, homeless, thieving bum that had hidden in the basement of the Twenty-First Street Mission to escape the police, but a stocky man a little older than she, who saw the same things she did and spelled out mysteries by his existence alone. She would understand them all eventually. _

"_Jim," she sang, and grabbed his hand, making his eyes widen and his brows rise. She just laughed at him—not mockingly, but in genuine amusement. "Shall we walk?"_

_He experienced the brief shame of not having an automobile so that they could drive to the theatre, but quickly moved past it, content to have her by his side. "I have only one requirement: that you talk as we go."_

"_About what?" she inquired, as they began an easy stroll down the corridor._

_He shrugged. "I had nothing particular in mind."_

"_I don't understand. Why are you asking me this?" She sounded irked and she knew it; she stopped and drew in a sharp breath. "What I mean to say is . . . _I _always felt that our conversations _were_ stimulating."_

_He felt the need to reassure her and almost impulsively gathered her up in his arm. "I didn't mean they weren't. It's just that . . ."_

_They came to the door and he freed himself from her, holding it open with one arm, but she didn't go through. She stood there looking at him with an expression that was expectant and patient. Several seconds passed that way. He couldn't disappoint her, but he could answer with the truth, either . . . so he settled for a half-truth: something true that was not really what she wanted to know._

"_I like listening to you talk," he confessed. "You're excellent at conversation . . . intelligent . . . and, plainly, I like the sound of your voice." Her arched brows rose a bit and he elaborated, "If I may, I like . . . everything about you, Miss Keeler. And I do believe I'm in love with you."_

_There was no reaction in her face, but she looked down and watched her feet as she stepped daintily through the door. Now she was standing across from him. He let the door slide shut and she looked up into his face. "_Do_ you?" It wasn't meant to be answered. "That's a remarkable statement, Jim."_

"_It's a serious statement, Miss Keeler."_

"_Edith!" she amended, softly, feeling suddenly as though she was going to cry. She reached out and squeezed his hand once, deliberately. She would have sensed the change in him even if she hadn't seen the careless glimmer go out of his eyes, rather like a candle being smothered. All that remained now were dark, serious shadows. This mood, unlike embarrassment, seemed to suit him perfectly, and she was struck by the transformation. Impossible though it was, he looked even more handsome than before, and not in a charming, grinning, boyish way, but in a brooding, contemplative way that revealed the man in him._

"_It's okay," he tried to say, touched by her empathy, but his voice came out sounding strained. With sudden resolve, he swallowed past the wad in his throat and some of the glimmer sparked briefly in his eyes. The Slum Area Angel—his angel—saw that it was not the same, but she could not understand why Jim would feign happiness, could not know that he wanted her final hours to be happy and that he would do anything to make them so, even if it meant smiling through his heartbreak . . . smiling, smiling . . . He promised himself that he _would_ wear a smile tonight, for her sake . . ._

It was the worst sin of all—to know that she knew nothing of it, didn't deserve it, and _still_ not go to her. Something Bones had murmured a long time ago rises up in him and he echoes it—_Lord, forgive me . . . I've killed one of your angels._

The unfortunate driver blares their horn and the tires squeal with the tremendous effort they make to stop. It's strange that he hears nothing, nothing, even as he knows they've smashed into each other, and he squeezes his eyes shut, not seeing it but unable to bear it because he knows just what it looked like, knows that her body is lying in the street and he's allowed it—_allowed it!_

Bones has stopped fighting. In his pale face, the eyes are blue and bright and stunned, and the lips are staggering over a word but can't find it.

It's over. Jim still can't pry his eyes open. He holds him, holds him, crushing his teeth together in an effort to not throw the man aside and run to her. In the frozenness of the arms, he feels the accusation, the unbelief . . . They hang to each other as is suspended, never to move again—like Edith, his angel . . .

_She'll never laugh again, never breathe again, never pour another cup of coffee, never minister to another bum passing through the 21__st__ Street Mission, and it's _your_ fault, your own fault you murdered that goodness, that you murdered her, murdered your happiness. _

_You could have saved her for selfish reasons, because you liked the way she turned her face up to yours and made your smile come out of you and took it and pulled out another . . . but you didn't even do it for that—didn't do it because you liked the feel of her small body surrounded by your arms, cradled, didn't do it for the fulfilling feeling of power, control that it gives you, didn't do it because you loved the idea of being close to her . . ._

_And why not? That's easy: you didn't love her. If you had, you would've saved her because she WAS herself, because she had a LIFE, a right to live! Who is to say her life is worth less than that of millions? What if Spock was wrong and she could have lived—? Did you even think of that, or did you just believe him because he's your First Officer?_

"You deliberately stopped me, Jim. I could've saved her." Bones' voice is husky, and he shakes Jim a little. "Do ya know whatcha just _did?_"

_Yes!_

Jim tears away, blinking in a furious effort not to spill any tears. His hand has taken on a life of its own, roaming over his forehead like it tends to do when he came down with one of his terrible migraines. _Thud! Thud!_ goes the cursed little spot, trying to break through his brain. But there is no pain _there_—the pain is in his stinging eyes and the hot, tense, nameless thing in his gut for the both of them, because Bones will never understand that he _had_ to do what he did, and Spock will never comprehend what it has cost him. And what's more, they didn't even _try_ to stop him from doing it! They should have murdered his blasted sense of rightness, goodness, honor, whatever—before he murdered _her_! Blast them for not seeing!

But Bones _does_ see now, recognizes the symptoms in Jim and can't help but feel an overwhelming splash of pity for him. Then, as if he hasn't gotten it by now, Spock's voice comes—earnestly, pleadingly: "He knows, doctor." He doesn't say _believe me_. "He knows."

And Bones is silent.

Jim clenches his fist as tightly as he can but it still shakes, it is the only outward part of him that shakes, but on the inside he is crumbling, crumbling, and he can feel the heat in his gut relaxing, releasing, letting him go but he doesn't want it to go, he wants to hate them, doesn't want to soften because that makes it hard to keep the tears from coming and _I am the captain; I will not do this, not in front of anyone—not ever!_ His fist tightens in on the anger he can't have back because Spock took it all away.

The passersby begin to gather in the street around the body of the fallen angel. They are quiet; nobody is calling for help. That's how dead she is, that's how effectively he's killed her. The doctor hangs his head in something like prayer; he knows what's next. _Lord, Jim . . . _

"Bones . . ." he begins, but he doesn't know what to say, how to ask, feels his head jerk in her direction but still doesn't look, can't look, doesn't want to see her in his dreams like he does so many other young, unlined faces that were spoiled by their idealist trek to the stars.

Absently, his hand goes to his hip and he touches there as if he's sore. ". . . I don't have anyuh my equipment. Must've set my bag down before I injected myself." It's a polite way of saying, _She's dead and there's nothing I can do for her._

Bones dares to come to him, his hand hovering for an eternity before it comes down on Jim's shoulder and makes him feel as though he's real and solid again. He feels a shudder go through his body and doesn't try to suppress the little noise that comes out. His shoulders knot and his eyes close briefly as he attempts to compose himself—he only opens them when he feels another shadow fall over his back.

"Captain," Spock says, having rapidly regained his ability to articulate, "it is imperative that we make our departure before the newspaper reporters typical of this era arrive. If we do not, it is likely that they will question us because we have witnessed Miss Keeler's death. It is quite possible that they would find motive for murder on the part of yourself, as a—" _He doesn't know how to phrase it_, Jim realizes. "—frequent male acquaintance of Miss Keeler."

"Boyfriend, Spock." He feels his mouth twist up into something nasty, something that had been a smile only moments before, but is now deformed. "The term is 'boyfriend.'"

Corrected, Spock bows his head.

The "boyfriend" title doesn't seem to satisfy the depth of what he feels—_felt_ . . . He hates thinking of her in the past tense. She should be very much alive right now, not sprawled in the middle of the street while the Clark Gable movie she wanted him to see plays on in some theatre that won't miss her!

He nods to Bones—_I'm okay_—but he feels like slumping spinelessly to the sidewalk and pretending like none of this is real, that he's dreaming, and wait for himself to wake up in his empty quarters (even emptiness is better than _this_) to the whistle of the intercom. But he draws on some mysterious reserve of strength and stands, no longer using the wall as support. "Lead the way, Mister Spock."

"Yes, captain."

Spock's voice is quiet. He knows Jim's just come back from the edge, and the slightest thing could send him right back over it again, and if it does he may not come back at all, but instead plummet through grief forever. Jim never wants to lay eyes on this city—the City on the Edge of Forever—again. Some understanding of this passes between the two men and without coordinating it, they both leap through the smoky portal, transitioning smoothly from one time period to another.

Bones descends behind them, but they don't turn to look; they can feel him there. All three of them are back in the time to which they belong, side-by-side, and, to the eyes of the waiting, they are all whole. These redshirts don't see the stolen clothes—the red plaid shirt and the gray button-down, the jeans and the khakis—fade away into uniforms in mid-jump. They only see the three of them: Spock and Bones trading a glance behind the back of Jim, who is magnificent and stern in his stillness, the hair spraying across his forehead glowing almost golden in the wake of the malformed O.

"What happened, sir?" Scotty asks. His eyes are wide and he looks like he hasn't budged in the time they've been absent. "Yah only leftta moment ago."

Spock saves Jim the explanation. "We were successful."

Uhura's nostrils flare as a smile spreads over her face, but something mars it: a question that she doesn't ask. She understands from the demeanor of Spock and Bones that the captain's silence is not to be spoken of.

"TIME HAS RESUMED ITS SHAPE," the Guardian booms, its O flickering and flashing as it speaks. "ALL IS AS IT WAS BEFORE. MANY SUCH JOURNEYS ARE POSSIBLE. LET ME BE YOUR GATEWAY."

In the corner of Uhura's eye, her tricorder blinks, and she reaches down to adjust the dials until she is able to make out the message on the screen. When she does, her face is transformed by a combination of awe and disbelief, her earrings jittering as she shakes her head. She feels jubilant, wants to run and sing and shout because of what she's seen, but understands that it would be inappropriate to express this emotion at the moment. "Captain, the _Enterprise_ is up there!" she says, voice steady and silky-smooth despite the contagious joy in her dark eyes. "They're asking if we want to beam up."

_I guess that's why you called yourself "The Guardian of Forever" instead of "The Guardian of FOREVERS." You—whatever you are—believe in only one Forever, one course that the universe must take. I do not believe that, or you, because I have seen that there is at least one other Forever that you do not guard._

_You are no Guardian. You didn't guard me from the pain you knew I would experience, but instead encouraged me to take the journey. You guard only your One Forever, uncaring what it has cost me to preserve it. You know I had to preserve it to regain McCoy's sanity, know the agony I've gone through, and yet you've just offered us MORE journeys! The nerve!_

_You have made me strangle the Other Forever with my own bare hands—made me kill my angel, my love!—made me destroy it, all so there would remain only the One Forever. No, we won't be taking any more journeys through _you_, thanks. We'll be our own gateway, make our own way. We don't need _you_, so—_

"Let's get the hell out of here."

_And never, ever come back._

Each of them moves into their place at Jim's flank as the air surrounding them begins its peculiar buzzing and fizzing. The silhouettes flicker out of existence and, in the next instant, a voice thunders across the sandy ruins: "I AM THE GUARDIAN OF THE ONE FOREVER. MUCH TIME WILL PASS BEFORE ANOTHER QUESTION IS POSED TO ME."

* * *

A/N: More written, just need to upload. Reactions? Comments? Questions? I realize it's quite angsty. Not really my usual fare, but I love Jim when he's like that.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Death of An Angel**_  
_**Chapter 2 **_

* * *

As if by magic, Scotty's sparkling transporter beams snatch up their particles and they all experience the odd, short tingling that accompanies the change in location. Their boots are each planted in the center of a tiny circular plate, but for one person the tingling doesn't stop and the transporter and the panel and purple wall keep tipping sideways until somebody catches his arm and straightens him.

He looks up and Scott is there, his eyes an overflowing combination of worry and relief. "Doctoor McCoy!" he bursts out. Scotty looks to Jim, expecting an "escort him to Sickbay," but his face is completely unrevealing when he glances at the doctor, and he turns away without saying a thing.

"Are yah all right?" Scotty says, anxiously.

Bones makes the effort to give him a slight smile. _I'm not the one who's wounded, Scotty, and even if I am, there's someone here who's hurting even worse. _But he replies, cordially, "I'm fine, Scotty, no need for concern. I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet, that's all. The cordracine has completely worn off."

If Scotty were a student of medicine, he wouldn't have believed it. Cordracine takes a few days to "wear off," with some odd effects in the meantime, he'll bet (he doesn't want to think about what the stuff did to him). But anyway, Scotty would never believe his explanation because, to _him_, they were only down on the planet for a short time. He didn't experience the—_time-traveling_,he forces himself to sounds so unreal, but they've done it before, and the sensation was almost as weird as when—_Not now!_

"Well, I'm certainly pleased to hear it," Scotty is saying when he focuses again. The man is smiling, but true to his character, his eyes are still melancholy. Bones is thankful, sometimes, that he's a doctor and not a certain overworked engineer. "Yeh were out o' sorts for a time, doctoor. Spock hadtah give yah the pinch."

But Bones doesn't hear this because his eyes are pinned to the concrete shoulders, following them out of the automatic doors and taking in Spock. Just the way the Vulcan's standing there—hands locked behind his back, head down—tells of a noiseless battle being fought.

_I don't know if there's anything either of us can do, Spock_, he says, silently, and interrupts Scotty's happy babbling. "If you'll excuse me, Scotty, I'd like to speak with Spock for a moment."

His response is all too hearty. "Why certainly, Doctor, don' lemae runnin' off at the mouth keep yah from yer duties . . ."

The dismissal leaves him slightly guilty. He turns and blurts, "Uh-hum—I'll stop by your quarters for a drink when I'm off-duty."

It was probably the one thing he could have said to pull Scotty's attention away from resetting the transporter controls; he grins wickedly. "Yer on, doctoor."

That resolved, he turns to Spock, who lifts his head and pulls his eyes back from the private place of contemplation that he is most comfortable in. "You wish to speak with me?" he says, but it is not really a question.

"I do. But I don't think this is the time or the place, do you?"

"I am needed on the Bridge," he says, as if deaf.

Bones reaches out and snatches a shoulder, turning Spock's graceful withdraw into a jerky, fierce movement. "Whoa! Not so fast, Spock. We both know there's nothing on the Bridge which requires your urgent attention, and besides, you sauntering around there like everything's just dandy's probably not the best of ideas, Jim the way he is." He doesn't need to say anymore; they both know what he is alluding to.

"Doctor"—Spock's voice is icy—"if it is your judgment that the captain is unfit for duty, you must log your report with him, not I."

"And you think he's _not?_ Spock, you _saw _what just happened!"

"Indeed. And as you are so fond of reminding me, humans must sometimes give expression to their emotions. I believe that, given the circumstances, the captain's behavior was predictable, if unbecoming of a starship captain. It should be duly noted that he was not in command of anyone except myself at the time and that the crew suffered no resultant ill effects. Therefore, I judge the captain's behavior to be irrelevant to the current status of his command. Do you dispute my assessment of the situation?"

He shakes his head gently, still frowning. "No, Spock, but I've never seen—"

Spock understands that he doesn't know how to convey it and offers something to fill the gap in their conversation. "It is highly unlikely that the captain's experience will affect his ability to command. I say this with the confidence of my previous first-hand observations."

Bones blinks at him. "Hate to break it to you, Spock, but previous observation has little bearing on _now. _He's never faced _anything _like this that I'm aware of. I agree with you that there is naturally to be some trauma involved—and I think in this case that's understating it—but I can't relieve him unless I can get him to submit to some basic psychological tests."

Spock looks as impatient as he ever gets, a brief inhalation serving as a sigh. "Again, that would require that you speak with the captain, not I. Should that fail, I suggest that you exercise the medical authority granted you by the position of Chief Medical Officer. Good day, Doctor McCoy." The automatic doors open and swallow him.

Bones sticks his head out and follows him into the hallway, but Spock is already entering the turbolift. Frustrated, he curses and slams his palm into a bulkhead. Spock isn't going to back him up on this, and he has a feeling that nothing he can say or do will get Jim into that Sickbay without making a scene, not even the ol' "unfit for duty" card.

True, he's seen Jim in pain before, but not like this—never this _much_. His mind reels at how it must feel to have to keep himself composed like that, when it's the last thing on earth he feels like doing. It is a much wounded Jim who doesn't strike back when he's been hurt; such retaliation is second nature to him.

_Why didn't you destroy the portal, the Guardian? I don't understand what happened down there, but I know you wouldn't want anyone else to go through it. I don't think any counterargument Spock would have spewed about "preserving scientific artifacts" would have kept you from doing it, either, if you were mad enough. But I guess the most important question here is, "Why didn't you save her?" I could tell you wanted to, but it was like you couldn't, for some reason. Even as you held me back, it was like somebody, something, was holding YOU back. I wonder what it was . . . _

He finds himself frowning at the automatic doors as if they've committed some offense against his person. He has no answers to any of his questions, and for what reason? Spock's not going to spill the beans; probably feels like it'd be violating Jim's privacy, the nut . . . Jim's already in a mood, so bringing it up with him is out of the question, at least until he dies down . . . And _oh!_ How convenient! The same two people who can explain what happened down there are the same two people who aren't talking about it! There's a reason he's being left out of the loop and he wants to find out _why_, but—

"I'm a _doctor_, not a detective!" he growls. An idea hits him then, and he bursts through the doors and rushes to the transporter controls. "Scotty! How soon are you off-duty? I'm gonna need your help . . ."

Careful to keep it vague, he describes what he wants to do and the Scotsman launches into intricate explanations that he does his best to understand—this information is worth ignoring his aversion to technology. As he does so, he's aware that he's plotting the worst kind of betrayal. It'll be easy to clear Scotty's name—he'll just say that he tricked him into it. He can probably even get it past Starfleet with only some minor disciplinary action, as long as he explains the reasoning behind it. But what worries him is how to justify it to _Jim_, the victim of his conceived crime. It will be hard—no, close to impossible—to convince him that this is necessary. He'll almost certainly lose Jim's trust and respect, and possibly even the friend he has in his captain.

Well, lost friendships had never kept Leonard Horatio McCoy from doing his duty before, and they weren't going do so now. _I'm really going to go through with this dirty plan_, he realizes. _I'm really going to do something wrong for reasons I think are right. But what's morality_, he thinks, _when your best friend is in agony? I have to do it, because I _know_, even without the tests—just that look on his face said it all, if you know Jim like I do!—that he can't take this one on alone, like he does so many other things. He's got to lean on us sometimes. Why doesn't he understand that? Well, he understands, but he's stubborn—too stubborn to admit he needs me, needs Spock . . ._

At his science station on the Bridge, Spock bows his head briefly, not in the least surprised when Jim steps down and says quietly, "You have the conn. I'll be in my quarters." There is no accompanying smile. In fact, Jim hardly gives him the acknowledgement that he would the newest ensign.

Spock nods sagely as he stands. _An unfortunate development. It would appear the doctor has legitimate cause for desiring to perform the standard battery of psychological tests._ He collapses the line of thought and walks towards the captain's chair before seating himself in it, choosing to ponder the familiar planet which now fills the viewer, thanks to a few commands the captain issued before his departure.

_Earth_, Spock thinks. _As it was meant to be—without a living, breathing Edith Keeler to plunge it into darkness. Odd—she did not intend to do so. Her intent was to assist those in poverty, or, failing that, to make them aware of the brightness she saw in humanity's future. The woman possessed a noble philosophy, but also very bad timing, _he mused.

Because of the time he and the captain had spent together in the City, their mind-link had become increasingly difficult to suppress. There _was_ a scientific explanation for it; this was not a failing due to his human half. Simply put, when there are minds present, a telepathic mind will almost impulsively attempt communication with them (even if the communication is one-way), much the way that humans require conversation and interaction with other humans to stave off a lethal feeling of loneliness.

The link is still fresh, and consequently Spock is finding it difficult to concentrate on maintaining command of the vessel, as he is both sensing and experiencing Jim's weariness, albeit not to the same degree. _Slumber_, he commands, knowing that it is best for the both of them.

Inside his cabin, Jim sinks to the sequined bedcovers without bothering to throw them back. In his current state, his mind is completely susceptible to Spock's suggestion. He doesn't even have time to come completely undone, as he'd planned to do.

_Sleep_, he thinks, and submits to it. The crack is there and hurts just as much as it did in the City, though he's kept from spilling out any further by pasting a thin veneer of control over it. He is certain that this sudden wave of semi-consciousness won't keep him from breaking. It has only postponed this agony, which lies like a lit bomb, counting down to itself, quietly . . .

_Three . . . two . . . one—_The mechanized voice of the computer pauses for a moment. _Zero._ With that calm word, the center of the great ship erupts in light, smoke, and fire, and he is in the center of it, burning at its heart. He is the great captain, going down with his ship . . .

"I don't want to die!" he calls out, or thinks he's called out, but it's too late—there's no chance to speak. There are simply thoughts that flash across his mind and presently there is another: "Not like this!" And then, with elation: "But it's the way I _should_ die. Alone, but not alone, because _she _is here. I'm beside her, inside her. I have lived as she lives, now I must die as she dies."

The braveness of his statement dissipates and slowly reality rises up and finds him again, stretched out of his back and blinking, disoriented, at his cabin ceiling. It's only a moment before he sighs.

_Another dream of self-destruction. Another dream of death._

The sense of panic he felt is gone, as it always is. None of his dreams ever extend into reality; he never fears them, never has to take sedatives. They are simply little things from his subconscious that feel real for awhile and then fade somewhere back into his mind.

_Edith,_ he remembers. _Not a thing to watch and believe and feel and then forget. Not a dream. REAL. She was REAL . . . _He winces. _If only I could forget her forever . . . if only she HAD been a dream!_

He regrets that instantly, because of course his life is the better for those big, beautiful eyes and the voice that knew the future—of course he's the better for knowing her! And he repents a thousand times, for even thinking, wishing that he hadn't known her—because the thought should never have crossed his mind _you disloyal, murdering traitor!_

Then he is angry with himself, terribly angry, and his stomach seizes fiercely, tightly, and he gasps in a breath, surprised at the sudden switch. He feels as though everything is being constricted and he's going to die if he doesn't just let it out, let it out _now_, let it go! So he lets himself sob—_hard_. It hurts. He hasn't cried in so long . . . hasn't had a reason to, because he hasn't lost so much in so long. He hasn't felt so much . . . thinks he's never felt so much. His mind tells him that's just a product of the moment, but his heart screams it's true because _I loved her! I loved her!_ It's all he can think. _I loved her I killed her I loved her!_

This had not been one of his many sensuous, one-night flings with some Orion slave girl—oh, no. He had wanted her for his own, to be _hers_, to own her, to have her always, to know that she was always going to be there and that everything about her belonged to him and that she felt the same about him . . .

_Senseless, stupid angel! You had wings; you should have flown away! Or at least you should have looked before you crossed the street! Didn't your mother ever teach you that?_

On the Bridge, Spock reels from the explosion of grief that is coming to him from over the link, sits stiffened as the sorrow flows over him like waves—crashing, pounding. He can do nothing to stop the battering—he himself has been stretched to his limits from spending hours hunched over "stone knives and bear skins," and there is nothing left to fight this with.

_Perhaps I should call the doctor,_ he thinks. The weakness and nausea are almost too much to bear, and he is forced to slump against the back of the chair, grateful that at least he was sitting down when the attack hit. In his present condition, he judges that he would be unable to stand unsupported.

He begins his usual chants in the hope that he can wait it out, instead of having to report to the doctor—perhaps prematurely, for it may pass. _There is no pain, there is no pain . . . I am a Vulcan . . . Fascinating_. He realizes suddenly that he can hear his own heartbeat, soft and rapid in his ears.

Helplessly, he sits stranded in position and watches and familiar figures of the crew go about their jobs, oblivious to his predicament, their fingers scattering and stretching over the various control panels . . .

_I . . . am a Vulcan. There is . . . NO PAIN._

But he is linked to Jim, and the powerful emotion isn't typical for him. If Spock _does_ experience grief, he never experiences it at this magnitude—total immersion, the inability to think of anything else—and just when he thinks it cannot possibly get worse, empathy kicks in because this is _Jim!_ Strong, unbreakable, unyielding, I'm-fine-let's-go Jim!

An eternity later, his mind begins to regain some sense of where it is, yelling, _you stubborn, stupid Vulcan! Look at you! What are you doing? Break it! Break the link or so help me God, I'll sedate you into oblivion, do you hear me? _He laughs a little at that, unable to stop the smile (it nearly splits him in two) and he knows at once that it's what clouds feel like when the sun strikes through them in beams.

Somebody grabs him, shakes his limp, unresponsive body.

_Now, Nurse! . . . You should've just cooperated, Spock._

Perhaps he has become entangled in someone else's mind, because the thoughts do not seem his own. Somebody promises him that they are going to take him someplace—_your quarters_—and he remembers the place, with the heat and darkness of Vulcan but with a feeling of his own and acquiesces, nodding as best he can. He feels something stick quickly and sharply into his arm, plunging deep into the flesh—!

* * *

A/N: Heh heh. It got more intense than I realized it would in this chapter. I have one more written, and I've had writer's block ever since that. Maybe when I upload it, you guys would care to help me out with suggestions? I'd appreciate any input you might have when you read it, thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Death of An Angel  
Chapter 3_**

This is still relatively rough; please excuse any grammatical mistakes or other strange errors I may have overlooked. :)

* * *

_Hissssssss . . . !_

He lurches upright and knows the truth: these people are not his friends! They're killers, have been killers the entire time . . . Why didn't he see it before? . . . _They_ must have done this thing that's hurting him so bad in his belly—Lord, it feels like a spike has been driven through it! He crushes his hands to the spot and thinks he's probably let out a scream, because they're all staring at him like he's mad, but no, it's just part of their disguise. They're pretending like they don't know what he's talking about, but they know! He knows they do.

"Killers!" He hears his raw voice rip out of him, sounding like it belongs to someone else. "Assassins!"

He knows that their leader (the strong-looking man who barked out "Bones!") is only _pretending_ to be gentle and concerned, because he's sending signals to the other members of his conspiracy with his eyes—especially to the Vulcan.

Slowly, he begins to back away—the proper procedure for dealing with these evil things, because they'll attack at the slightest provocation. Despite himself he starts to shake, realizing that their leader is _in league _with that devil, has perhaps even dealt with him! Anyone who chooses to consort with such evil beings as Vulcans can only be barbarians, deserving only of a merciful death!

Unfortunately, he can't deliver the death the Leader deserves, because he's horribly outnumbered . . . They're all coming towards him, surrounding him so they can leap on him, take him away . . .

"I won't let you!" he screams, _won't let you take me, kill me like you did my daughter, my beautiful daughter who had hardly begun to live, who I loved so much, who you killed in cold blood!_ "I'll kill you first!" he swears, directing it at the Vulcan devil in a confused haze, unable to remember if Joanna is dead or alive, if they've already killed her or not . . . Well, regardless . . . "You won't get me!"

_It doesn't matter if I can't remember!_ _I know what you are!_

"Get away from me, killers!" he says, even though he knows, somehow, that he is safe in this little room, at least for the moment. "I won't let you get me!"

_But they're going to kill you_, his mind says. _They're following you right now to kill you, to KILL YOU! You've got to get off this ship—they're everywhere, they can all talk to the Leader and the Devil . . ._

He can't think anymore. Something is wrong with him, something is horribly wrong—what have they done to him? He's been wounded or something, but even when he paws at the spot, he finds no evidence that the skin has even been pierced. It hurts like the devil, and he doesn't realize he's moaning until he hears the voice of their ship, a woman's voice, overhead, punctuated by his own groaning.

"Security alert: seal off all decks. Ship's doctor McCoy has taken an accidental overdose of cordracine, the effects of which are unknown at this time. He is potentially dangerous. Repeat: he is potentially dangerous. When found, he is to be stunned and taken immediately to Sickbay."

Sickbay—safety. No, no—security. Or even closer still, "home." It's his home. He can go there and this awful pain will go away . . . he can fix it there, or someone can. All he wants is for it to go away. Sickbay is the way to make it go away.

_But you can't go there! They'll kill you!_

He can't remember why they want to kill him, only knows that his eyes have been opened and now he can't go back to that terrible, trusting blindness or allow himself to soften when he sees the eyes of the strong man melt or the tall Vulcan devil send him a peculiar expression—he can't allow it! He knows the truth!

_But why do they want to kill you? WHY? I dunno, but I gotta run. Can't stop or they'll get me. If I can just get away safe, I can find the answer, I can figure it out, I can remember . . ._

"Daddy, daddy!"

The little girl runs towards him as fast as she can, obviously excited to see him after so long apart. A moment later, she has come to him and has collapsed heavily on his chest, her breathing labored. "Daddy!" she calls out again, lifting her head to lay pale blue eyes—_my eyes!_—on his face. "You're back!"

"Yes, 'm back," he murmurs, responding to her senselessness. He knows going along with the program is the only way to settle her, but for some reason he _is _relieved to see her there.

Slowly, the smile disappears from her round face and she rises, looking uncertainly at him with those big blue eyes. "Daddy, what's wrong?" She places her hands on him and shakes him a little. "Are you hurt?"

"S'nothing," he slurs. "Be okay inna minute . . ." He reaches for her head, remembering that children like to be touched, and runs a soothing hand over her hair.

"Should I get mama?" She looks so serious and worried standing there that he wants to scoop her up in a hug and tickle her until she forgets, but the unrelenting, lancing pain makes that impossible at the moment. However, he gets his wish, because she is sensitive to his distress and she buries herself against him, throwing her thin little arms around his neck and clinging so closely that he can feel the heat of her breath, harsh and heavy.

"I'm so glad . . ." He would like to think his voice is muffled because he's speaking into her hair, but he knows that isn't why. He is moved almost to tears. Suddenly he knows who she is, why he responded the way he did. "I'm _so_ glad to see ya, Jo."

She is completely silent, except for the little breaths she is taking through her mouth. He closes his eyes.

_If only I didn't have to leave! I haven't ever gotten to seen her grown up . . . last time I saw her, she was just a baby, a little bitty baby! And look, she's walking, talking, even recognizes you! You walked out on her, but she doesn't care because you're back. She's forgiven you. What is that worth? Too much, too much . . . I'd be willing to die to stay like this forever, but I'm old . . . she's young, she's got to live._

"Come on!" He stands up and snatches her hand. Joanna looks up at him, rubbing at her eyes with a fist and sniffling, confused.

"Huh?" she says.

He just yanks her towards the open door. "Gotta get you out of here . . . they'll kill us both!"

They fly through the hallways, the alert screaming overhead. There are footsteps; any minute now they'll be caught.

"_No!_" she shouts, pulling down on his arm so hard that he cries out and lets go of her; she tumbles to the ground and crosses her arms. "I'm _not_ leaving mommy!"

"Honey, ya don't understand! They're gonna _kill_ us, gonna _kill_ you, gonna _kill_ daddy . . . _unless _we leave!"

"Go without me!"

"I don't want to!" The words are out before he's thought about them. "I just found ya. I can't possibly leave you behind, Joanna, not now . . . You don't know how bad I've wanted to see you. Every time we land on a planet and I see the little kids, I remember you and I miss you . . . just as much as you must miss me, and wonder why I've been gone so long. Don't you think I wonder, too? I wonder why I don't just come back home and make everything okay between me and mommy so that I can see you. I wish you were old enough to understand, but I know someday you will. You're just not big enough yet, that's all."

"I know! Mommy tells me. You love the spaceship _mooore_!"

"No." His voice trembles. "That's not it at all."

"Mommy says it is."

"Mommy's says those things because she's upset with me, not because they're true. Listen to me, Joanna. Come with me so they don't get you. We'll both go, alright?"

"Who's gonna watch over mommy?"

"_Mommy _can take care of herself. She's a big gal."

"But . . ."

"You'll do as I say, little missy. Now _up!_ You'll thank me later."

But she doesn't budge, and he is forced to scoop her up under the armpits, and even then, she fights him, screaming, "daddy, daddy, no!" and he thinks he'll go out of his mind with it, because her shriek is tearing at his ears, and then his temper gives and he _throws _her to the ground, roaring like a Wildman.

"Daddy?" she manages. The look on her face is one of a trust that has been shattered for the first time. Before this, she was never aware that betrayal existed—he has given her that dirty knowledge.

"Stop lookin' at me like that!" He can't handle her expression, and now the first droplet trickles from her eyes. "Stop it! Stop _cryin_! I didn't do anything. I was only tryna to save you. I didn't mean—"

But he breaks off. There is no way she can understand his motives.

Just then the door opens and he runs through it, away from Joanna and he thinks he'll burst with guilt. She had been so small, and her eyes had been his own . . . She was only worried about Jocelyn, anyway—it was just that he'd gotten tired of hearing that name. It ignited so many bad memories in him, and in his jealousy, he'd ran from her.

Now she would never trust anyone as deeply, especially not him. She's always be suspicious of him, remember what he'd done to her, and nothing he could do would ever change that—not an apology, not going back, not buying her favorite kind of ice cream, nothing. There was nothing he could do.

That helplessness only made him angry. It gave his legs strength to run, and run he did. It all seemed very familiar, almost as if he'd done the same thing before, even if not in the same way—the same cowardly deed of a man who can't handle what life throws at him.

_I can manage life—I'm a doctor! _And some wicked part of him replied, _Only on an examining table! You botched your own life, and now you feel you've got to make it up by fixing other people's, when what you really oughtta do is go work out your own prescription. There is nothing worse than a hypocrite, son._

His feet slammed to a stop. The voice was different now.

_Romans chapter two, verse one: "Therfore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things."_

Hoarsely, nearly drowned by the wail of the alerts, he said, ". . . Dad?"

_Yes, son. I'm down here waiting. Have you found the cure yet?_

"Not yet, not yet . . ."

_Oh, son . . ._

". . . another look at your readouts . . . some more blood tests . . ."

_I know there is no cure. I don't expect you to work a miracle. If you haven't found it and the pain becomes unbearable, I want you to let me go, you hear? . . . Son?_

He finds his location by instinct, and the doors shoot open, revealing his pale face and the staring eyes in it to an inattentive technician who is manning the controls. Even his arms seem made of iron—a few swift chops disable the technician, and he sinks to the ground.

Now all that's left is to escape—from the conspiracy, from Joanna—and to go where he's needed, to go and save his father's life.

_It is not cowardly to preserve your own life, _he tells himself. And then, _I'm comin', dad._

He drags down the controls in some pattern and leaps up onto the transporter. A moment later, he springs out into the middle of the street. Immediately, he knows it's wrong. This isn't a hospital, or a Sickbay, or even Earth . . .

_I forgot to set the location on the controls!_

He knows he won't be able to get to his dad in time now.

"You ruined me!" he howls at the sky. His arms come fiercely inward and he collapses around them, sobbing helplessly. Saliva hangs from his mouth; he doesn't notice or care. "Dad!_—OOK!_ I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry! _OOK!_"

_It's alright, son. "For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's."_

Still sobbing, he turns facedown for a taste of the gritty sand, knowing that even this can last only for so long.

Joanna is gone. Dad is gone.

And they're coming.

* * *

My ideas for the next chapter are few. I've been stuck here for quite awhile. I've been trying to make each chapter beginning similar to the last chapter's ending. For example, the transportation at the end of the first picked up with transportation at the beginning of the second, and Spock being hypo'ed at the end of the second was picked up with Bones hypo'ing himself as he did in the actual episode at the beginning of this one.

I was thinking of plunging back into the story, with Jim beaming down to look for him, but I felt like then the story would turn into one giant flashback to the episode, and I don't feel like novelizing it because I feel like any fan knows it backwards and forwards. So I don't know how to get myself out of what I got into, but I guess I'll figure it out eventually. It could take me awhile for my next update; I'm completely open to suggestions. PM/review me if you have any. Please and thank you! :D

. . . Also, thanks to Romanse for the R&R/pm, because I now actually have some new ideas and have actually been working on the next chapter! This story has hope! :)


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